


she gathered in my soul from many a thorn

by AceQueenKing



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: Biting, Captivity, Courtship, Dubious Consent, F/M, Hair-pulling, Heterosexual Sex, Role Reversal, Sex Pollen, Uncle/Niece Incest, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-23 19:56:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17689877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceQueenKing/pseuds/AceQueenKing
Summary: Hades is captured by the wild spring goddess Persephone after intruding upon her garden.





	she gathered in my soul from many a thorn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jasminetea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jasminetea/gifts).



He had not wanted to come to the wild one’s home, but duty called.

Hades entered into her domain stealthily, wary to not be caught by the summerchild. Word had come to him of her feral ways, even in the depths of his underworld. They said she was as merciless as Artemis when it came to men who encroached upon her domain, and he had no desire to have an arrow planted anywhere in his body for simply doing his duty.

His sister had let the child go on too long with her juvenile war-games. Perhaps Demeter enjoyed them, but the rumor was Zeus himself had tired of her penchant for casual mischief. Whispers had reached Hades in the underground that Zeus had even tried to marry the girl off.

At first, he’d tried to parade her to the other Gods of Olympus. Not Hades himself, of course. Zeus knew even an unwilling daughter of Olympus was still a powerful thing, and it was preferable to see his feral hellcat married within his circle, rather than let her go down to Hades’ or Poseidon’s realm.  Their alliance of the three realms was savage-won but delicately-held. He had been the eldest first, and neither he nor Zeus had forgotten that.

When Zeus’ own sons and the sons of lesser Gods had declined, Zeus had offered his wayward daughter to the world of men, or at least men of a certain stock—royals and other high-born folks. When  _they_  declined, he had seemingly washed his hands of his wayward child and left her on the mortal plain, rather than see the girl pulled down to Hades.

It was a slight, and a damnable one, but Hades could not find in himself the capacity to care. It had only saved him the time it would have taken to refuse the offer. He had not taken a god or goddess to mate in the millenniums he had held his rule and held little desire to; the best he could say for the miserable lot of his brothers, sisters, and their innumerable whelps was that they were all dull, boring fiends, all jockeying for power in a golden city he could never enter.

Except for Demeter and her summer child, of course. They had carved out a place in the mortal world, though he knew not why or how they had decided to make this place their earthly home. Perhaps her father had ordered Demeter’s little hellion cast out, though he doubted it; he had not known his brother to be so hard-hearted.

He bent down low through thick and thorny woods, hunting for the dying presence that called to him. The presence had been insistent for a while; prayers to him were always urgent, but this one had been hammering his head like a hissing kettle for the entirety of his morning judgments. If the Fates were kind, they would not lead him to Demeter’s girl, but rather the being that was in need of his services. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on the presence; the sooner the spirit was dealt with, the sooner he could leave and return to his quiet home.

“ _Is anyone there? It’s so dark and cold. Why won’t anyone help me?”_

He winced as the spirit’s thoughts hissed into his mind; the worst of the dead were the ones who couldn’t tell they were. It would require  _explanations_ , and explanations took time, and the longer he remained, the more surely Demeter’s child would set a target upon him, and he had no desire for the child’s play.

He held out his hands in front of him, using his realm-powers to phase into the shadow realm that flitted between the world above and his world below. It would help him remain unnoticed should humans dare to cross the wildling’s forest, though he knew it would not fool a single god or goddess who came upon him. He passed as a shadow through the forest, gliding toward the presence until he came upon a clearing. It was quiet, which disturbed him, and had no area for hiding, which disturbed him more.  It was too obviously a God’s sacred grove: silent and still, as the underworld was for him.

And naturally, the  _spirit_  was _here_ in another God’s glen, though he could not quite see it yet. He advanced forward.

At the center of the meadow was a magnificent garden. Even he, who had no interest in the vine or the flower, had to admit it was glorious, full of plants beyond his ability to name. He doubted even the humans had names for them all, though their kind had spent a great deal of their centuries above ground attempting to catalogue them. Next to the garden, several trees sprouted varieties that under any other person’s care would be impossible to raise together and yet here they were: apples and pomegranates, cacti and oranges and mulberries, all growing in the same soil. Purple vines and vividly pink flowers danced among more common earthly variants, and in the center of it all, his spirit sat, curled deeply in a thorny vine.

A dryad, he thought, though he had never seen a tree nymph as wretched as this pitiful creature. Its spectral body was naked, with light silver shadow-skin glistening; it hair was wild, matted. The hair obscured its nudity, but he could see through peaks of the disheveled curtain of hair that the ribs of the thing were thin enough to see the bones.

He cast a quick glance around; there was no temple in the clearing, as one would expect, but there was a campfire off to the side, or at least the ruins of one. Folded neatly in a plain, unassuming canvas tent were two large blankets, rich in Olympian wool; he also spied the remains of a campfire, but little else. The embers of the fire had long since gone cold, and there was no wood stockpiled nearby. Perhaps the little goblin and her over-doting mother had abandoned the camp; it would be just like Olympians to be wasteful and leave their belongings behind. Even if they planned to return, well…neither the goblin nor her mother were here now, and that was a gift in and of itself.

Hades had learned, long ago, not to waste precious gifts when given.

He snapped his fingers, transitioning fully back into the mortal world and revealing himself for what he was. 

“Oh!” The shade cried out in the wailing-song he was so used to hearing. “Oh no! Not the unseen one! It can’t be you! I am not…” The shade of the dryad looked down at its ghostly hands, then back at him, pitiful wetness in its eyes. Shades could not cry, but he could see in its face how badly it wanted to.  
   
“It is I.” He opened his hand in welcome, but the shade scurried away. He sighed and bent down, squatting toward it in hopes of calming it quickly. This would not be an easy one, and he was too short on time to be kind, not that kindness was ever truly in his nature. “And I am afraid you have, little tree.”

“I’m a  _nymph_ ,” it hissed;  _not a bright one_ , he thought, to backtalk to a God, especially  _the_  Final God. “And I’m perfectly alive, you see?” It shoved a hand toward him, and his lips curled in distaste as it passed through his shoulder entirely. The sensation was odd, shadow-cold on living muscle, and he liked it not at all. The shade wailed as it passed through him, and Hades heart curdled. Enough of this nonsense.

“I’m afraid I’ve no more time to waste on your pitiful denials,” he said, grabbing the shade’s arm and forcibly removing it from his person. He concentrated his power into his fingertips, letting his shadow-senses gather; he would send her to his realm’s shores, and deal with her nonsense there. Let her annoy Charon until he finished his rounds collecting the dead.

“But how could I have —?” The nymph hissed, and then she was gone, pulled below. Hades sighed. He did not know how the strange nymph had managed to get killed – perhaps the savage child had burned the tree. Perhaps its wood had simply fallen to neglect; other than this garden, it wasn’t as if this wild land was much maintained. Indeed, he suspected the little wildling or her mother had cast some sort of spell to keep this place from mortal eyes, for there were no noise here, not even the cawing of birds he had gotten used to when he’d come a-calling for the souls stuck in the more isolated locations of the mortal world.

He started to stand, brushing dirt from his knees. It wasn’t the best reaping he’d ever done but he’d finish the job of judging the poor nymph’s immortal soul when he returned. He had at least avoided Demeter’s goblin child, he thought.

His hand brushed a bloom near the vine that had ensnared the shade and he paused for a precious second, staring at it. A multi-headed floral beast, with soft pink cream petals with silver splashes of metallic light that were beautiful, beyond the telling of anything he might have to decorate his home. He reached out before he could stop himself, let a finger touch one delicate, velvet petal. Gorgeous. He stared a precious second too long before coming back to his senses, remembering where he was. Best not to tarry. He was just about to return to his shadow-form when he heard the ever so slight sound of an arrow being notched. In the silence, it echoed.

He sighed. Not so lucky after all.

“Daughter of Demeter,” he said, holding out his hands in a gesture of peace. “I bid you no ill.”

The only response was a quickly launched arrow; he turned to shadow and it passed through his head, as slippery as a fish through water. His mouth drew into a thin line of distaste. He was getting quite tired of having things stuck through him today.

He turned slowly back to his normal form, only to blink in surprise at the vision before him.

He had heard Demeter’s daughter referred to as a _child_ , and the dress she wore did indeed hold a ragged hem at the knees, as was tradition among their kind, once. It was a  _chiton_ , too; he blinked in surprise—no one had worn one of those outside of Olympus in a good several centuries. But other than that her dress, the description of her was quite inaccurate: there was  _nothing_  child-like about her.

Her body was supple, obviously well into the bloom of womanhood with pleasingly wide hips and shoulders. She was certainly as capable as Artemis in wielding her bow, with her mouth just as stubbornly set for war as Athena. Her hair was wild, a dark brown-black set of dense curls that flowed over her tawny shoulders in thick waves with bits of vine forming a headband to keep her coarse tresses from interfering with her shot. She was barefoot, but her short, thick legs made him certain she could outrun him. Especially in the suit he had worn, intending to blend in with the humans while he was conducting his collection of the dead. She was, he thought, achingly beautiful, for what Thanatos had so disdainfully called a  _goblin._

Goblinchild, indeed; whoever Thanatos had gotten the information was either woefully out of date, or he had been misinformed. Neither was a good omen for this meeting. Nor was the young one’s face, full of stern fury.

“Who are you?” She asked; her head tilted forward in obvious wary pride. “You are clearly _theoi._ Are you another of my father’s suitors? I had thought it bad enough he offered me as a whore to the sea God. What does he send before me now, the God of vapor? Perhaps a God of whistling wind? Tell me, little god, how far have I fallen in my father’s affections, that you have come for me?”

“I am no paltry parlor-trick god.” His lip curled in derision; so, Zeus did favor Poseidon over him. An annoyance, that, if unsurprising. They had always shared certain…traits. But that was not important now; it was time to set the child straight, so she could send _him_ on his way.  “You speak to the third estate child, the lord of darkness himself, the God of all mortals. I am death itself, and I’ve not come to your sacred grove for anything beyond my duty.”

She stared at him for a moment, head tilted. He nodded self-consciously, expecting her to give him his leave. Every God turned from him once they were aware of what he was; death always made the deathless uncomfortable. Even his siblings had not been immune from that discomfort.

But the goblin woman – for she was not a child, decidedly  _not_  a child – did something quite unexpected instead. She threw her head back and laughed.

“Your  _duty_ , uncle? I will give you this, your approach is unique. The others promised words of love and dowries. You have made it clear I am as important to you as mulch. I almost appreciate your honesty, though I am still insulted.”

He felt a flash of color pinken his cheeks. Barbaric woman! To think he had little better to do than to beg her father for a lackluster bride to drag to his bed, kicking and screaming. He would do  _nothing_  of the kind.

“I assure you, I have not come to beg for your  _mulch_ , as you say. I have come for a soul for my domain that happened to be tangled in these woods, nothing more. If you will allow me passage, I’ll return to my cold realm and you may continue on rebelling against your lord father with my permission, little one.” There was certainly little love lost between them now. Foolish of Zeus to play favorites, given their positions; Hades held a larger share than Poseidon ever would.

She walked toward him with fluid grace; he swallowed involuntarily as her fingers lightly touched his chin. He said nothing as she turned his head one way, then the other; the gaze in her eyes was almost objectifying, and he was unused to such scrutiny. Was this the way lesser gods greeted their betters on Olympus now? He squirmed under the touch. Her eyes seemed to miss nothing, and when she took another step closer and brushed up against him, he took a step back.

“Why, I don’t know why my father is so scared of you.” She smiled, but there was nothing joking about it; the curve of her lips was cruel, and he knew her for Zeus’ daughter then and there. “You’re only an old man.”

“I suppose I am,” he said, shrugging. He had been used to barbs enough from his brothers and sisters during the war, when they jostled for positions and glory. He had not cared then, and he certainly did not care now as to what this wild-woman thought of him. 

“No protest? Hm.” Her eyes flashed. “It’s very odd. You have the reputation of a powerful warrior, but…You seem as courageous as a dormouse.”

“I had enough fighting in the war.” He wearily shoved a hand past her, putting distance between them as he started to walk away. He was tired of her; if anything, it was only disappointing that she, too, seemed so focused on meaningless squabbling. He had hoped, perhaps, that she would appreciate the mortal realm as he did; that she, too, might spurn Olympus and all its wretched excess.

He felt something on his ankle and tripped; the ignominious wretch! Biting back a curse, he gathered his power into his hands. If she was going to trip him, he would simply go south through the core as a shadow and arrive home that way. His hands pulsed and he felt himself begin to slip into his realm, but then the glow faded from him and he bit back a curse as he simply fell _to_ the earth instead of _through_ it. His mouth slammed into the dirt and he was too stunned to move. How had that happened? He felt himself dragged backward quickly, turned upside down before he could as much as blink. He glanced up and found a vine climbing quickly up his legs. So she had Demeter’s gift after all, it seemed. The _one_ gift able to repel his own, naturally.

This time he did not hold back on the cursing.

“My my,” she said, smiling. “Uncle, to think you’d have such a tongue on you.”

“Unhand me!” He shouted with the full authority of his office, but she only smiled. He tried to glare balefully at her, but a glance up reminded him exactly of how short her chiton was, and for propriety’s sake alone, he was forced to look away.

“Oh do swear again, that was wonderfully fun. Did you shout such in the war? Make the Titans all run away?” She waved her fingers and the vines climbed; a pair split, neatly placing his broad hands in cuffs before he could even jerk away.

“ _Niece_!” He gripped at the vine, scowling; if the girl refused to stop being ridiculous, he would simply free himself. He did not need his powers to do so; he reached up to grab the vine and attempted to pull his arms apart. The vine grew in response, monstrously quick; one punctured his wrist and he stopped.

“Ah, I wouldn’t do that.” She knelt down, her face close enough to his own he could feel the heat of her breath on his chin. “The pricks are poisonous when full grown, uncle. You’ll induce a terrible fever ripping yourself free, if you even can.”

“On what grounds do you hold me, child?” He hissed; he tried to twist from side to side to wiggle free but the needle-welts embedded in his wrists only dug in further. He wondered how long it would take for the poison to take effect, assuming she wasn’t bluffing.

“One, you interest me.” She shrugged her shoulders. “That’s rare enough. Two, I figure you’ll be a warning to any suitors that I’m not worth attempting to buy, since father is clearly getting desperate if he is offering his own daughter as a mere concubine to _you_. Three, you trampled my flower, so I’m well within my rights to demand recompense.”

“Recompense?” He sputtered; he looked toward the flower he had brushed against earlier and saw it had been smeared into the dirt when he’d stepped back; he sighed. That was unfortunate. “Surely we can work out  _financial compensation_ — “

“Nope.” She flicked her fingers, throwing him toward the tent, and he grimaced as he landed, hard, on a verifiable pile of brambles and vines. “You’re mine—for the moment, at least, Mr. Third-Estate.”

He gasped aloud; the pain of the punctures in his skin was minuscule, but the indignity of it all burned deep. Through great difficulty, he managed to glare at her.

“Stop this,” he snarled; she shook her head, then turned her back on him, bending to the flower he had accidentally trampled in haste. He watched her wide hips as she bent down; the skirt on that _chiton_ was distractingly short, he thought. That thought, however, was swallowed all too quickly in his outrage as he watched her hands gently touch the flower and instantly restore it to health. His blood pounded in his ears.

“For fuck’s sake!”

“Now, now.” She walked back over to him and knelt beside him, putting her hands gently on his shoulders; her power flowed through him, healing his cuts and he gasped as her sweet life-current worked its magic. He opened his mouth, but no words fell out; how many years had it been since he’d been touched by anyone but ghosts desperately fighting not to be sent beyond? How long since he had felt even half so potent a current of power as this? He had forgotten what the touch of his own kind felt like. His heartbeat started to pound in alarm, and he wasn’t entirely sure it was because of the poison she’d spoken of. “You should be glad I am keeping you. You might be king of the stiffs, but you’re the most entertaining company I’ve had in a long while.”

He felt another flood of heat flush through his face but for once, the leader of the third estate was silent. He did not move, awash in the sensation of being held by her hands. She squeezed his shoulders; his heart twisted in desire for her life-touch. She was, he had to admit, not entirely a horrible goblin. Still, he craved his freedom.

 “What would your mother say if she saw you holding me like this?” He asked, trying another tack.

She smiled. “She’d think you were going to carry me off to the underworld, you brute, and I’d managed to just barely defend myself by trussing you up like a Saturnalian boar.”

“You forget I know your mother, and she knows I’m not capable of such a thing.” He had gotten along well enough with Demeter, the last time he’d talked to her. Which was…he tried to remember. Certainly, Demeter had never visited his home below, and he had not seen her since she had had Persephone. He tried to remember how long ago that had been. Clearly, given her adulthood, it had been a while. He had not accompanied Persephone’s birthing, for which he could hardly be blamed—his powers were never welcome near a birthing bed, though he’d collected many a mother and child in such circumstances. The last time he saw Demeter must have during the war, then but—for all their infighting, they had been close enough then, the six of them.

Persephone’s face blushed red, fury nakedly evident in those doe-eyes, and he rejoiced for a moment despite his predicament. He had called the woman on her cheeky lies. He would only have to wait for Demeter to arrive, and she would surely stop her hellion from doing further harm to a brother she had liked.

“ _My mother_ was raped by one of her brothers and abandoned by the other,” the girl spat. “Frankly, I doubt my mother would be surprised to hear of you resorting to the same.”

“I….” Hades’ mind spun, trying to process this unexpected news. Clearly, the information he was gleaning was, at best, incomplete. He thought of his sister and felt shame; he had all but abandoned his sisters to his brothers, assuming their safety would be assured. He had assumed wrong, it seemed, and the knowledge that he had been so  _sure_  in his assumption that he had never even asked Demeter if she was alright chafed at him; she had been rude to him, sure, had spurned him even, perhaps… but as the eldest, he had his duties to care for his younger siblings and he had been negligent in them. “I am not my brothers,” he said, voice soft, but knew his denial sounded weak.

“It is not  _only_  your brothers,” she hissed. “Apollo and Hermes are much the same, always pleading love but losing interest as soon as they’ve stuck themselves deep. And did not your own  _dear_  father punish your mother for bearing his children? Did not your grandfather shove any troubles he had into dear grandmother Gaea? It is in your kind, sir. Gods are all cruel.”

“Not I,” he insisted, but she shook her head and stood. She seemed quite content to keep him trussed, and he wondered how long it would be until she would untie him. “Please, let me go home to my land. I am a king and cannot long be parted from my realm.”

“I do not think they will miss you so much. No one misses death.” She smiled and patted him on his head in an almost condescending manner. Before he could complain, she silenced him by tracing her fingertips down his ear to his chin. He could not help but feel the warmth of her hand and found himself damningly eager to lean into it. He frowned; he could not remember being so affected by a simple stroke of a hand, but then, when was the last time someone had touched him in anything other than fear? “I’ll be back,” she murmured; her hand stroked down his neck and he did not miss the way her eyes glimmered with interest when she brushed against the edge of his throat.

“Where are you going?” He asked, grimacing at the huskiness in his tone; it was entirely the wrong sort of reaction, and he couldn’t figure why, exactly, he was having it for this woman. She was pleasing to the eye, sure, but it wasn’t as if she had treated him as anything beyond, well,  _mulch_.

“Well, for one, to kiss my lady mother goodnight. Three’s a crowd.” She did not wait for his response to that, cackling wildly. “Also, to ask her for the antidote to the poison you’ve just injected yourself within your struggling, uncle. And I should think you would like some supper. I know I would.” She waved as she took off, flowers trailing from her swinging hips – no he would  _not_  focus on those hips, comely though they were. She disappeared rapidly into the deep woods that led the path back to the underworld – and to Mount Olympus, too.

He sighed, twitching in his seat. He could only imagine Charon’s roaring laughter if the boatman could see him now. And the poor nymph! Now the dryad would be waiting even longer; perhaps it would give her time to accept her fate.

He grunted, trying again to slip the bonds by slipping back to shadow, but the wildling’s vines held fast. So long as he was being held by a god of who could control life, it appeared he wouldn’t be able to return to the land of the dead. His powers were, quite neatly, useless. He could perhaps slip through his restraints if he managed to destroy the vine, but if he tore the vine in twain, he’d puncture himself a thousand times more than he already had. Time would tell if the wild one’s claim that the vine was poisonous was a bluff.

He stared up into the sunlight, wondering if Zeus was laughing his ass off at him from on high. He had thought if he was captured by an enemy, his brother would strain to help him, but now he could see all too clearly that help was not forthcoming from Olympus. He frowned, wondering how long she would be. He had little he could do but wait, it seemed. He tried to wriggle against the vines on his legs, but she had not slackened the vines’ hold at all; he would surely be sore if she was gone long, but…nothing to be done, he supposed.

He closed his eyes and waited. Time passed, though he was not aware of how much. It could have been hours; it could have been days—his kind needed little food, and he took no rest. All he knew was that he was miserable.

Slowly, the poison's effect came into bloom; it started as little more than a sudden, scratchy heat on his skin. At first, he thought it merely the long exposure as Helios’ chariot made its way across the sky, but no; even as the sun dipped into the horizon, his skin felt as if he was on fire. He groaned as sweat started to drip from his face onto his suit jacket; he couldn’t even wipe it off, not being trussed like this. He watched the shadow of the sun as it set, using a tree in the distance as an impromptu sundial.

He thought of yelling out, but there was little point in it; the island was still damnable silent, and all he could hear was the lap of waves distantly upon a shore. No birds, no animals. Nothing but the quiet of the glen. Nothing but his own thoughts to keep him company.

He shivered, despite the heat piercing through his body, burning as if Helios’ himself has set his hand—well, never mind  _where_. Hades gasped, breath ragged, wondering what that thought came from. It wasn’t as if he’d ever had any interest in that bright braggart. Or anyone else, he thought; he wished he could tug at his collar, because suddenly his clothing felt a lot more confining…oh. Wonderful.

He stared into the vines tangling around his wrists, trying to guess at what the species was to have such a potent effect on a deathless one. Demeter had offered him lessons in identifying flora during their childhood, but he had always been too busy trying to keep them all alive to take her up on it. Foolish; he could not name it. He tried to wiggle his toes and didn’t miss the sudden fission of heat that seemed to travel straight to his cock. Why, he was even half-turgid already, all just from the awareness of his own body. When had that last happened? He was long past such sudden stirrings at his age. He laughed, officially so far gone he was now amused by how far he’d fallen. To think if Demeter’s daughter could see him now.

The thought of her led to another surge in his cock and he sighed. She was a good looking thing, no denying that, especially in this frame of mind. The wide splay of her hips, the gold flecks of her eyes…he grunted. It was almost a good thing he was tied up; he doubted he could resist staring up her chiton now.

Hmph. He smiled; this was ironic. She’d accused his kind of being little more than rutting beasts and now he could think of little else than fucking her.  He tried to think of other things as the light dimmed once more, but the hellion kept popping into his thoughts. What would she be like, he wondered?

His skin itched as feverish dreams played through his mind. He wondered if she would prefer to be on top; he would let her, right now, his status be damned. Let the wild one take her pleasure from him, he would give it willingly. Even bound like this, if she wanted it. She hadn’t entwined one of her many vines over his cock after all, and those lithe, quick fingers could surely undo his pants as fast as she could notch her bow. He moaned and shook his head, tried to concentrate on the tree ahead of him, but the thoughts quickly turned to Demeter's daughter and how it might feel to have her against that tree; had she even known the touch of a man? Would she let him have her, wrap those wide legs around him as he thrust her into the trunk? She was certainly old enough to have experienced her first flowering, but then again, she’d rejected no end of suitors…which made the thought that she’d even  _entertain_  him even more ridiculous.

But then, she  _had_  touched him, even after knowing what he was. And her fingertips were so light and so, so… _fates above_ , stop it. He was the oldest of his brothers, and lusting in a way that would make  _Zeus_  ashamed. A new low point in his life, which had mostly been low points, if he was being honest.  She would hold little interest in a man as old as he was.

But then again, she _had touched him,_ _had even_ smiled at him… and what would such a smile look like on her, if she was clad only in all her naked glory? A right wicked smile it would be, he’d bet. What would those lips look like, if she used them on him? He tried to imagine kissing them swollen, but the thoughts all too quickly took a turn south, with her imaginary lips blazing a trail to the miserably hard head of his cock. The tension in him was becoming almost unbearable; he was iron hard now, erection straining at the seams, and he would take the little one’s laughing if it meant that she’d let his hands go free enough to at least  _touch_  his cock.

 “Uncle!” He heard, and grimaced; stars above, was it too much to hope the accursed poison would run through his system before she got back? He folded his cuffed hands awkwardly over his erection and tried to focus on his niece’s words as she bounced back over to him, and not the soft smile that rounded the wildling’s lips. Fates, they were the plumpest things, those lips, so soft he could not resist leaning forward toward her, yearning for a kiss….what was he thinking? He jerked his neck back quickly, no doubt looking the fool, but he didn’t care. This was  _ridiculous_.

“Looks like you’re in a bit of a rough patch,” she said, surprisingly gently. Her voice was a little husky, and something in his stomach flipped in ridiculous hope. Her surprisingly warm hand touched his head and he winced. He no doubt felt disgusting and beyond that, her touch sent even more fire through his veins, and it was already going to a place that was already _far_ too aflame for his liking. His hips bucked on instinct at the touch, desperate to mate her. Fates, he could do it, could have her. She was so close…

“Anti…dote?” He asked, whimpering at his own weak voice.

“I’ve brought it. Though first …” she dabbed at his skin with a soft cloth and he whimpered, quite sure if she dipped her fingers any lower than his neck that he would, in fact, be in such pain he could very well die despite being deathless. “Let’s get you cleaned up a bit. My, how you’ve been sweating, uncle. Is the afternoon sun so harsh in your strange clothing? I did think it odd.” The fact that no one in the outside world had worn a  _chiton_  in centuries seemed lost on the girl, though he was too preoccupied to voice the thought as she ran the cloth over his chin, heading downwards…  

“Don’t.” He shook his head vigorously. “Please.”

“Uncle, stop being such a child.” She murmured, but her hand skimmed his chin as she withdrew. She seemed to enjoy touching him; that was  _decidedly_  not helping him in this ailment. She pulled something from her belt and he saw a small bottle filled with a sort of murky sap; he did not hesitate to part his lips as she brought it to his lips. “I must say, I’m surprised to see my little vine affect you so. Is a bit of itching so much as to make you so miserable? How is it my father is so deathly afraid of you he bans us all from so much as broaching upon your door when you can’t handle a harmless little scratch?”

He said nothing, only exhaling as sucked down the contents of the bottle. His pride had had enough injury for the day; he was desperate only now for the antidote before he did something they’d both regret. She tilted it back with a semi-bemused expression on her face, but he did not care; he swallowed every drop of the disgusting muddy sap. “How long?” He asked.

“Until the itching stops?” She shrugged and ran her cloth over his mouth, wiping up the bits of sap that clung to the edges of his mouth. Her fingers lingered a bit longer on his lips than they should, and he moved his head slightly forwards. She seemed not to notice. “Probably fifteen minutes, maybe twenty at most, uncle.”  
  
“And the rest?” He panted; he cared not at all about a small bit of itching. That was livable. The desire to mate, however, was driving him mad. She was so beautiful, stars; those lips pursed and he thought of nothing but wanting to kiss them, to claim –

“The rest?” She tilted her head, obviously confused. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“The….” He tried to think of a way to speak of his ailment that wasn’t sure to induce her mockery. Why did she insist on playing dumb? “The  _other_  effects.”

“Other?” She stared at him a moment, lips pursed with curiosity that made him think of nothing as to what she could be doing with them. “What other effects? Are you alright?”

Much to his alarm, she swung herself into his lap before he could explain. She held onto his face and frowned as she looked into his eyes and tried to find the discerning cause. The vines, he noticed dimly, moved out of her way, realigning themselves to restrain him without impeding her. His hands were pulled away from his paltry disguise, pulled down to the ground at his sides. He couldn’t move, could do nothing to stop her as she conducted her investigation. He hissed as she leaned up against him – and her eyes widening suggested she found his –  _ah_. The look in her eyes suggested surprise…but not disgust.

“Oh,” she said; she wiggled against him in a way that sent every nerve throbbing and he saw stars. He tried to move his hands to push her away, but the accursed vine’s binding held firm. She stared at him with wide, stunned eyes and he winced. He took back every one of his regrets he’d ever listed as the worst in his life; this had now surpassed them all. He bet Zeus had probably invited Poseidon over to his heavenly perch, and they were both watching him with eyes wet from laughing so hard at his expense.

 “This poison…you see its effect, I trust,” he murmured, and tried not to notice the spark of what looked close to intrigue in her eyes. She nodded slightly; her lips fell open slightly. Her hand grazed his chest with just the lightest of touches, and he watched with painfully transfixed attention as her tongue skimmed over the tip of her lips.

“Does it hurt?” She asked, in a low voice that was almost husky. He raised an eyebrow, carefully looking at her: she was keeping herself pressed so tightly against him he could feel her pulse beating fast against her skin. And it was beating very, very fast indeed.

“Agony,” he admitted; she rolled her hips again and he hissed as his skin burst into flame underneath her.

For a moment, they stared at one another; he could not think of what to say to make this better, and the wilding seemed equally taken with silence. Then, quick as a lark, she took action: she grabbed his hair with an iron grip that would put his own to shame, and yanked his head forward into a painful kiss.

He whimpered, unable to stop the needy noises coming out of his mouth as she claimed him. His hips thrust desperately against her damnably clothed hips as she held onto him like a vice; it hurt, stars above it hurt so much, the feel of her on his skin, bewitching and bedeviling. He wanted to hold her, but all he could do was kiss her, kiss as much of her as he could, and he feared that would not be enough to sate him. She seemed to be of the same ailment, furiously kissing him with every gasp of breath she uttered.

She eased his mouth open into an open-mouthed kiss, demanding more. Her loving was viciously tender and he wanted every bit of it she would give him. Damn his inability to move or he would respond in kind! The vixen bit down on his lip, and he tilted his head as close to her as he could in response, wishing he could use his hands instead of having to simply chase her with feather-light kisses. She pushed harder against him, deepening the kiss, and he moaned. It was a grand kiss, vicious and savage and natural and _godly_. She was no great love-smith—she pressed  _hard_ , her lips inexperienced—but he did not care. 

“You are in a  _big_ , bad way, uncle,” she purred into his ear as her hand slithered down to his pants, grazing his heavy cock underneath the cloth with the lightest of touches.  _That_  made him groan; he tried to hold back, but his neediness only came out as a strangled curse instead. His head swam; she was receptive, he could touch her, could  _mate_  her. Her hands slid over his pants, squeezing the aching hardness within, and he kissed her as hard as he could, hips bucking against her. She withdrew only a second later, but the harsh sound of his buckle as she struggled to open it gave him a sudden moment of clarity. What was he doing? He shouldn’t stay here, shouldn’t do this, this was  _Demeter’s_  daughter, his _sister’s_ daughter,  _Zeus’_  daughter for all that was holy. He was in an alliance so lightly held that a mere spark could set it all aflame, and the girl was a match burning upon his fingertips.

“You have such strange clothes, uncle,” she murmured, tugging insistently on his belt. She pursed her swollen lips and looked at him, a small smirk upon that wicked face, and he knew he would be lost if she got it open.

“S-stop,” he murmured. She did; surprise etched in her wide eyes. They were beautiful eyes, they were, and he wondered what those golden-flecked eyes would look like when he made her come with his —stop. No.  _Down_ , he commanded, though his cock happily disobeyed him. “Shouldn’t. Not right, you’re…I’m…it’s not right.”

Several emotions flashed across her face, too quickly for him to identify all of them but  _hurt_  was there, surprisingly, in a flash of lowered eyes and bitten lips and he—he wouldn’t think of what that meant, not right now. He pressed a final kiss to the tip of her forehead, hoping it would smooth things over. She held out her hands to grab the vines holding his arms, a more innocent form of torture. He felt her start to loosen the vines that had held him, and panic seized at his heart.

“Don’t.” He looked down, frustrated. “ _Please_.”

“You’re very confusing, old man.” Her voice had gone back to the clipped and icy tones of their original encounter, and somehow, despite knowing he was the cause of the change, he regretted it all the same. “You intrude on my garden, crush my perfectly nice new flower, act like you’re crazed with desire and seduce me only to tell me to back off, and now when I try to let you go—you’re yelling at me not to.” She laughed as Zeus did, mocking and cruel. “I am sorry to have met you, uncle. I now see why my father—“

“Persephone,” he said; he leaned his head out toward her, but she did not come any closer, though she did not drop his hand. “It is not…with this upon me, I… I am feverish for your touch. If you let me go, I  _may_  take more than that. I have been stung by Eros' arrow, and I do not know how well I will be able to hold myself back from the poison that courses through my veins.”

“You are trying my patience.” She snorted. “That’s not something you get from my little vine-weeds,  _uncle_. I’m not that unkind. It might make you sneeze and scratch, but  _this_ ,” she cupped his cock for a second, and he winced, biting back the overwhelming urge to lean into her fingers. “This is  _all you_. I was willing to go along with your seduction, but I’ll not accept blame for your own desires.”

“I swear to you it is not a ploy.” He grimaced as her hand went back to the safer ground near his arm. “You may ask your mother and your sisters how I have treated them. Never have I so much as touched them in such a way. I am not my brothers. I am…” He chuckled, but there was no mirth in it. “Just an old man, long alone.”

“You have all the great mortals of the world in your domain; I do not imagine it is hard for you to find talented courtesans to warm your bed.”She sniffed, but he caught the waver in her voice, the way her hands clenched his arm. She was willing to be persuaded, she was vulnerable to his seduction. What was he saying? His head was swimming—he shouldn’t be persuading her of anything, let alone seducing. He needed a safe topic. Preferably not focused on rutting.

“You have not seen my domain.” He shrugged as best he could with his limbs so heavily bound. “Not that I blame you, it is a dark and cold place. The shades of the dead are simply that—shadows. Have you ever tried to grasp a shadow? Even if I go into the shadow realm myself, they slide through me as I do through them. It is not…possible, to mate one.” He realized, dimly, that he brought the subject back to sex without even meaning to—it seemed all but impossible to think of anything else.  

“That sounds convenient. Too convenient.” She sighed. “Plenty of your ilk have  _lied_  when it suited you. Apollo himself told me when he last visited that he would invent a new musical instrument if _only_ I would show him my breasts for inspiration as to its shape.”

The thought of Zeus’ musical whelp artlessly flirting with Persephone made him feel irritated in a way that made him uncomfortable, and he brushed it away. “You saw my behavior earlier. If I wished to mate you without your blessing, goddess, I’d have done it then.  _I_ told you I was no threat and asked to leave your domain, if you will recall.”

“Do you still wish to leave?” She asked, her voice unexpectedly soft, and he tilted his head in confusion at the sudden turn in her mood. “I know I can be wicked, but…Is my company so horrid to you? I...I did bring supper.” She reached into a pocket of her chiton she’d clearly stitched into the fabric, and pulled out two perfect red apples. There was a surprising amount of vulnerability in her then for she blushed as fiercely as the prize she held in her hands; he wondered, had she pulled this trick on her other suitors? Was this another trap, another way to keep him captive or torture him with strange but potent plants? His mind was too preoccupied with her touch at the moment to focus on anything but her hands, even knowing the dangers lurking within her.   
  
“It…is not horrid.” He wished he could squeeze her hand, but—hands bound, he could only persuade her with his words. “Not horrid. I…” Sure, she had held him captive, but…she had touched him with nary a hesitance over doing so; kissed him as if he was something worth kissing, and not an old man to be feared. She had been the first to dare to look at him as more than a mere inconvenience in centuries. And that mattered more, much more; in his love-addled mind, her touch had become all-encompassing. “That…The last few minutes have been most enjoyable.”

“Then…” She grasped the vines holding his arms and tugged all at once; each flowered, then wintered, then split, falling to the ground as an explosion of flowers.

“What are you doing?!” He roared; she did not turn away from her task; with a slide of her hand, the flowers returned to the earth, and he was left rubbing his wrists.

She smiled shyly and leaned forward, pressed a kiss to his stunned lips, and this time his hand slid around her, his brain struggling to come back to life after being thoroughly stunned. Now he was able to grip her hips proper and bring her into a far better position to rub up against his cock and oh, stars above, the friction between them! His hands were everywhere upon her;  _bad_ idea, a part of his brain whispered, but then she bucked against him again and what wisdom he had left was gone.

“I _will_ have you if you continue like this, vixen,” he murmured in a low voice; damn Zeus, and damn Demeter, too. The writhing enchantress on his lap was all he could think of; consequences were something he would deal with later.

His wildling groaned in response, and then drowned what was left of his mind in more kisses, a rapid fire of kisses; his lips felt sore from the aching need of her and when she rolled her hips on top of him it proved nearly his undoing; his hand clasped at the fibula on her shoulder until his knuckles turned white.

Her fingers were not idle, either. He heard the click of his belt and broke his grip on her dress to help her undo it, sliding it from his waist and tossing it into the grass as if it was a snake. His fingers fumbled as he tried to push off the far-too-hot coat he’d been wearing for hours, and he snarled. Cooler, thinner fingers came to assist, and as his sister’s daughter came to help him, he kissed her, the world sliding off its axis as her lips claimed him again, then again. She seemed as hungry as he was, and he did not think he could have his fill of her. Despite the considerable distraction of their kissing, she pulled the offending coat down with a quick tug; he tossed it behind him out into the open air. He needed more, needed to touch her more; needed his skin on her skin and  _now._  Persephone was evidently of the same mind, as her fingers joined his at his buttons on his shirt; she worked from the bottom while he fumbled through the top and nothing,  _nothing_  could stop him from loudly moaning into her mouth as she pulled it off of his shoulders and her soft skin made contact with his own. Better, but still – not enough. 

“Off,” he murmured, tugging at her dress; she reached up and undid her chiton’s brooch herself, and he kissed the soft, brown skin of her shoulder as she slipped it off, undraping the fabric from one arm, then the other.  She slipped the entire garment off then, and he blinked in present surprise; she hadn’t bothered wearing any sort of breast binding, and  _oh_ , what a lovely vision she was with only her smallclothes barely restraining her modesty. He hadn’t noticed her breasts at first, his focus far too preoccupied in favor of her wide hips, but now he could kick himself for missing them. They were a fine set; rich as ichor in color, only slightly paler than the rest of her. He wanted, more than anything, to touch her; his hand dipped to lightly caress one and it was not enough. He could not resist having a taste of her.  

He bent his head low to capture one of her soft, brown peaks within his mouth and enjoyed very much the sudden wail he eeked out of her. He suckled like a man possessed, and felt her iron grip return to his hair, keeping him focused on her. His other hand pinched at the other breast, and when she let up her grip after a moment, he switched. Her breath sped up, and his pulse with it, and for a few moments, despite his protesting cock that pounded for release, he preoccupied himself purely on her pleasure, switching back and forth between pinching and suckling, enjoying each and every little cry the wildling ground out at his ministrations.  

“Oh fates,” she moaned in a breathy whisper; his hands gripped tight on her small-clothes; like her dress, they were an older style, but he remembered how to unknot the linen, and even with the distraction of her lovely, lovely breasts, he managed to free her from the fabric without looking, tossing it aside as she all but threw herself into getting his pants off.

“Off,” she moaned into his mouth with a desperate zeal; he separated from her and she whimpered, and that sound made him move as if the furies themselves had commanded him; he kicked off his shoes, pulled down the pants and moved his hips upward; shimming out of them in a method that was unrefined but efficient, disposing of his underpants with it. He tossed those clothes with the rest, and by the time he’d kicked it all away and realized how ridiculous he must look, stamen wagging in the wind, she was next to him, her arm touching his own.

He studied her for half a second; she was a sacred thing, sitting in the grass next to him, a soft blush on her cheeks and her hand carefully touching his.  “Stars above, you are a beautiful woman,” he murmured and was satisfied to see her blush a soft red in response.

“How do you want to…?” He asked, breathlessly;  she blushed a fiercer shade, and before she could answer, he decided she was so lovely he couldn’t help but kiss her, because kissing her tasted like nectar and it was hard for him to go even seconds without her in this frame of mind. Her hand roamed further south, exploring him slowly, trailing down his waist and when her hand closed around his cock in brief and blessed relief, it was all he could do not to mount her then and there.

“I…I don’t know,” she murmured; his head swam in options, and he mulled them over as he planted a fresh trail of kisses to her ear. It was odd she had no preference; the wilding had been nothing less than bossy up to this point, but he did not mind taking the lead. He blazed a hot trail of kisses down her neck and she did not protest when his hand gently brushed her legs apart and slowly stroked her sex for the first time. She was soft; so soft, it made him suck in a harsh breath. When his finger managed to slip from her lips to her entrance, he was pleasantly surprised; she was already quite wet. She squirmed against him, whimpering, and oh how his heart seized at the thought of mating her like this.

“Do you like to be touched like this, beautiful?” He asked her; she bucked against him, answering with her hips instead of her mouth. He chuckled into her throat, sucking at it; he was enjoying the wildlings distress almost as much as she did. If he was clearer headed, he’d want to do this to her for hours; show her how patient death could be as he eeked more and more little mewls out of her. But today, his hot blood all but boiled in his veins; he was already straining to contain himself, but oh—he wanted to see her lose control, too.

He separated from her for a second, only in as long as it took to lie down on his back on the ground. The wildling swung her legs around him; she needed no instruction there, the flawless minx.  She ran her long fingernails down his chest in a move that sent him shivering. She moved to align them, already ready to take him; he shook his head, stopped her movement with the clap of his hands around her hips.

 “Not yet,” he murmured; her lips pursed, confused, but when he gently pushed her forward instead, she blushed a deep cherry-red, as if someone had stained her cheek with wine. “Let me have a taste of you, sweetling,” he said, his voice unable to hide his desire; more than anything, he wanted to taste her. She did not comment on his voice breaking.  

She parted her legs quite willingly and he smirked; she hadn’t mentioned a word about being uncomfortable on top, and he suspected she would not, even if it was improper given their status—he outranked her in every way. But then, he had never seen so bossy a creature as her before and much to his surprise, he quite liked it—in this state, anyway. Her thighs landed on either side of his head and he wasted no time in moving his mouth to sample her. He kept his hands on her hips, urging her to move. He liked the feel of her comely hips in his hand; good to grip, good to hold, good to feel the flutter of life in hands so long used to holding nothing but ether.

He kissed her most reverent place carefully, tongue lapping at her core with a gentleman’s grace.  Slow, slow, slow; go  _slow_ , he tried to tell himself, even if it was torture. He managed to start slowly, tongue gently probing her slit; she leaned into him, hips moving on instinct. Good. She tasted like copper and …mint? A sort of herbaceous flavor he struggled to place, but knew that he only wanted more of. He slowly probed her opening with his tongue, felt the sharp inhale of her breath even from between her thighs; she was a tight thing and did not allow him entrance easily.

Her hips rocked back, breaking contact. She uttered a shaky breath, and his hands directed her to come back. When she moved forward again after a moment, he licked a long trail from her center to the soft nub at the tip of her sex; that made her thighs clench around his face and he moaned, overwhelmed by the sensation of her. He kept his tongue’s pressure upon it as much as he could, writing old, ancient words into her that had long since lost meaning in this world and his own. She writhed above him, her hips and thighs damp with sweat. The wildling’s hips were truly wild now, moving of their own volition entirely as he licked at her, endlessly hungry; her scent was more glorious nectar than anything he’d supped upon on Olympus.

He should, he knew, show her mercy. He backed off for a few seconds, swiped lower, angled to slide further into her entrance, trying to stretch her open with his tongue gently at first, then harder, faster; her hand wound through his hair and tugged insistently, yanking his mouth back toward her clit. With a soft laugh, he complied. He didn’t even mind the loss of control; he liked that he knew what she wanted, and he was more than willing to reward her for it. His head swam as he went for the kill, sucking at her clit as if worlds depended on it.

She murmured something low that he couldn’t hear, tucked between her thighs; his fingers pressed down on her hips instead, gripping her tight. Her noises grew louder, her thighs trembling; he felt it, encouraged it. He clamped his hands down hard to hold her hips down so he could take her up to the peak and over. The wail she emitted when she finally came tumbling down for him was almost painful to his ears, even sheltered by her thighs, but it was the most lovely music he’d heard. He stroked her skin reassuringly, licking each aftershock to drink her down as much as he can. 

She broke contact again, moving backward; before he could so much as blink, she grabbed him by his silver hair, pulled his mouth up to hers for a sloppy kiss. He was, perhaps, less gentle than he could be; his mouth chased hers hungrily, unable to break contact for more than a few seconds.

“Your face is wet,” she murmured between kisses. He didn’t bother to reply, ducked down to nip at her throat.  Her hands wrung through his damp hair as he nibbled more at her lovely neck, then chased the bite with soft kisses. Oh yes, he would mark her; would mark her as his so every time she looked upon any reflective surface, she would see his bite upon her neck. She slid down him quickly, readjusting until she was straddling his lap. She was all confidence now, rubbing her folds against him, and oh, the view there was so good he moved  so that he could see her better.  The underworld would look particularly dull in comparison to this for…for perhaps ever, he thought, compared to the glory of his little life-goddess. She was glorious, hunched above him like an Amazon waiting for the kill.

“You play a dangerous game, sweetling,” he murmured, but in truth, he could not protest against the view or the angle.

“Always.” She looked at him with a heavy, daring look, no longer joking. He moved a bit to to align himself with her, and pressed the head of his cock to her entrance; had he been in a better state of mind, he would have held this for a while, teased her, savored the feel of her against him. But today, the ichor in his veins was all but rioting. He rose up to better see himself disappear slowly into her, but the wilding, ever one to take advantage, leaned over him and bit, hard, at his neck, and he lost the final dregs of his remaining control. He slammed himself down inside her, burying himself to the hilt in one quick motion.

She drew in a heavy and harsh intake of breath and he stilled. She wasn’t moving, and in truth, he wasn’t sure if he should. He hadn’t meant to take her so fast, and he was suddenly all too aware it might have been painful. When he looked up at her, she was biting her lips, clearly straining, but she did not ask him to pull out, either. “Am I too much for you, little one?”

She shook her head and exhaled. “No, but… _fuck_.” She wriggled her hips lightly and squeezed him with inner muscles that made him all but roil underneath her; he stroked at her hips slowly as she took one deep breath, then two. She was tight; just being inside her made his mind swim. She started to rise off of him and he groaned, keeping himself still and letting her set the pace. Up, slow; down, slower still. But he was  _inside_  her, and that was a heady thing indeed.

“Good girl, keep moving, just like that," he purred; she squeezed him with an involuntary shiver of her muscles, and his eyes all but rolled back in his head. “You feel so good, beautiful.”

He had thought that the poison would abate when he was awash in her tight body, would leave him after he’d finally had what had desired most. It had not. Instead, it had amplified; all he could feel was her: the slow movements of her hips, the squeeze of his cock by her tight cunt, the brush of her thighs against his. Zeus and their entire horrible family could be standing in a circle around them offering criticisms on his technique, and he doubted he would notice for one second.

She put two hands on his chest; he hissed as her hands grazed against his nipple. She moved up, down; faster, settling into a rhythm now, taking her pleasure on him. He dared to thrust his hips up a bit and she grinned, a right wicked grin every bit as lovely as what he had fantasized about when he’d been only dreaming of having her. “Still good?” She asked, her voice surprisingly vulnerable.

“ _Very_ good,” he murmured. She moved her hips as he matched her pace, slowly but insistently starting to rut her. She leaned forward more, her mouth coming close enough he could kiss her, but she ducked past his lips with only the slightest whisper, instead moving to the side and kissing his ear.

“I have death in me,” she whispered into his ear, childish bragging evident in her ragged voice.

“So you do,” he admitted, stroking her cheek. She moved forward enough to suckle at his bite and he cock surged at that; she intended to mark him. He groaned and thrust deep; the new angle was a bit more shallow and he wanted more. _Needed_ more. He grabbed her ass and thrust deeper and deeper, furiously bottoming himself out and setting a pace that at best could be described as punishing for them both.

She moaned. Her mouth fell open with a heavy-lidded gaze; he wondered if she could see how pleasurable he found her, for certainly he could tell looking at her that she was quite enjoying him. After a moment of staring into one another’s eyes, she kissed him, and his control of his powers faltered; he opened his palms up to her, shadow-power pulsing within.

That – that was too much for what would be surely a one night stand, and yet, he could not stop himself from doing it. To involve powers was to go beyond the mortal mechanics of the act, to offer her a god’s embrace—it was a dangerous thing, a combination of their powers, and there was no telling what they could create. But the wildling—she only lived up to her name. She took one look at the shadows smoking from his palms and pressed her palms on top of it, a verifiable explosion of flowers growing out of the mist between their fingers.

He gasped, hard; he shifted, forcing her into his lap so he could fuck her furiously, trying madly to mate her, breed her, have her—whatever he could take of her, he would have, and he would have himself as deep in her as he could be. “Fuck!” She shouted into his shoulder, the word almost slurred as she bounced on his cock, and he stared adoringly at her. On her lips, it was the most beautiful word he had ever heard in his long life. Her hands held tight to his, and he wouldn’t ever even dream of letting go. This was new to him, and the change was stunning; it was as if he had been blind, and now could see.

It was—it was different, different than he had ever thought it would be. He was aware, suddenly, of how every movement felt to her, how every single arc of his cock felt in her tight little body, not only from his perspective, but her own: how full she was of him, the pressure of his hips pressing to hers almost overwhelming. He felt her emotions cresting over the top of him; felt her sheer desire float by on an eddy of overwhelming emotion. His mind expanded, enveloped hers, and she did the same to him. He felt everything the wildling did, and it almost scared him; he saw his future self in her, and wondered if she saw the same, an entwining of fate’s ropes as inflexible as her vines.  

She looked no less affected; she was making little nonsense noises into his shoulder, little phrases that he couldn’t quite place the meaning of. “I didn’t know it would…” she murmured, hands pulsing against his own; a sunflower sprouted from her tresses, withered, died, was reborn in a cavalcade of asphodel that flowed through her dense hair. “I didn’t— _think_ —“ He squeezed her fingers as reassuringly as he could. She looked up at him, visible awe in her eyes as she whined toward her limits. He claimed her lips in a hot, bursting scorch of pain-pleasure; white heat flew through his entire, immortal body, and he whimpered, overcome.

The connection deepened, images flashed through his mind: Persephone on  _his_  throne, in her garden, her tent, but always with him; in  _his_  bed, arcing against him as her hands scrambled for purchase, knotted in  _his_  blanket. He gasped, the air driven out of him as he rammed his hips hard into her, in an orgasm so strong he felt like he was he was slammed face—first into the summit of the highest mountain he’d ever attempted to climb and could only scramble for purchase falling down it. Instinct took him the rest of the way — he should have cut connection with their powers, but he didn’t, couldn’t; instead, he trembled underneath her like a fish out of water, complete with mouth open in surprise, and the wildling simply clamped down on his hands and rode out his orgasm with him, letting him come within her. Visions passed, too quickly for him to see anything but  _her_  —and flowers blossomed about him, each in different jewel-tones, each growing more vivid as he pulsed deep within her.

She should have slid off of him, he thought; really, he should have pulled out before this point, but he couldn’t and he didn’t, and he was still too feverish to even think of the potential implications of that. She continued to ride him to nurse the aftershocks, teasing him with soft kisses as her hips moved on him; she was shaking, too; close, he thought.

He broke the connection of his power to hers; she whimpered but oh, it was too much, too much. He sat up and caught her with one arm, keeping her hips close as she ground against him; the other snaked between them, pressing down on her clit as best he could.  “Ki-kiss me?” She asked, stuttering, and he complied, could not  _even_  think of not doing so. She gasped as he crashed down on her mouth, and his softening cock flared back to life again as he felt her channel pulse around him. Even in this, he couldn’t sate his thirst for her. She gasped quietly against him several times, hips still flaring in desire as she came, and he kissed each and every space on her that he could reach until she slowed, finally, and laid her head upon his shoulder.

“It seems there’s still some life in you yet, old man,” she said; oh, how his heart melted for this wildling. It was not entirely the poison in his veins anchoring them together, he thought. He kissed her again, rumbling pleasing, nonsense noises in his chest. He nuzzled encouragement as she continued to ride him in slow, simple moves; he was well aware of how much he wanted her again already.  

“I hadn’t done that before,” she said slowly, placing her hand on his now-closed palm and letting just the slightest frisson of life flow forth into his ancient veins.

“Nor I,” he admitted; he’d refrained, before, from indulging that instinct; it was an unpredictable thing, and required giving up more control than he’d been comfortable with. Not to mention, of course, that taking a full dose of  _death’s_  gifts would — well, anything lesser than this wilding would have quickly become part of his reaping, and  _that_  would be more than awkward. He’d seen what happened to Semele, when Zeus had tried the God’s embrace with a woman of lesser stock; he’d had to reassemble her soul in the underworld, fragment by fragment. The more powerful the gift, the more dangerous, and he was no less powerful than Zeus. 

“Thank you, lovely,” he said, because only now did he vaguely realize how much damage he could have done, just out of a selfish desire for—what? Instinctual bonding?  He chided himself, but yet: he was hard, hard as iron, cock still desperate to move, wanting more still; no,  _needing_  her still. She shifted back a bit with a frown and he shook his head.  _Don’t go_ , he tried to say, knowing all too well how selfish it was.

“Are you...” She frowned. “Did you come? I thought I felt you—“

“Oh yes,” he hummed, nodding his head. “Oh yes.”  A part of him wondered if she was disappointed by his wanting more, if she’d starve him now after having been so generous. “But I am…” The words faded; he did not know how to describe it. She made him feel alive, in ways he had not felt for – a long time. It was a fever, but it was _more_ than a fever, and telling her the whole of how he felt was _too_ vulnerable, even as intimate as they were. Instead, he pivoted to humor. “I have life on my lap, it seems.”

“Hm, so you do.” She smiled a little smile, a copper blush to her dark cheeks, and disengaged from him; the loss was staggering enough he whined a bit as she slid off of him, leaving him wet and, still, painfully hard. She looked at him for a long second as he stood, eyes skimming down his body. His breath caught in his throat slightly at the look in her eyes, dark and warm and curious. One of her fingers gently touched his shoulder before moving a trail down his skin, dipping into the soft grey of his chest hair. He did not move, unsure of the foundations they were now on; she tilted her head, studying him, her eyebrows rising in a silent question as she traced the long scar that divided his chest neatly, then dipped down to his hips.

“My father.” He hoped she wouldn’t ask for details and to his surprise, she didn’t. She held out a hand and he grabbed it, though the touch of her closed hand was maddening when he knew what that hand contained. She brushed some of the dirt off his back with her free hand, smiling.

 “You’ve got a lot of scars,” she murmured, squeezing his hand. “I like them. They…tell a story. I see why you are hailed as so fearsome.”

“Oh, I shall take that as a compliment, then,” he said, feeling quite the confused fool. Was he really flirting with the wildling? Was he truly so deluded as to think perhaps she might allow him to mount her twice? Immortal women were fickle, he knew.  His grandfather had lost his member for only 100 couplings; the wildling was as descended from Gaea as he was and seemed far shorter of temper.

And yet, gods above, how he wanted her. She stepped out ahead of him, suddenly purposeful in her stride despite being as naked as the day she was born, and he watched, confused, as she walked around them, tossing branches and brambles into the long-abandoned fire pit. Was she preparing for tuning in for the night? Hadn’t it barely been dark when she’d come back? He blinked, noting for the first time that it was quite dark upon the mortal plane; so long down in his underworld, it was easy for him to forget that this was quite different from the normal day for humankind.

And his one wild-lived goddess, who had chosen the mortal world over Olympian gold.

She turned back to him and snorted. “You look ridiculous, you know, standing there in the wind. Get our clothes. Your night vision surely is better than mine, or is all your talk about the underworld being so dark and gloomy just that—talk?”

He tilted his head in confusion, but she’d already turned back to the fire; did she intend to dress and leave him here? Perhaps that was the way of it. He sighed. Perhaps he would have this ailment forever, aching eternally now.  Still, despite the wound to his pride, he obeyed, gathering their hastily tossed things. He held out the fabric of her chiton to her, and she rummaged around in it until she produced something from one of the drapes of fabric she’d made into a pocket: a flint. After a few moments, she managed to produce Prometheus’ gift to the humans and turned back to him with a soft smile.

He stood with his clothes in his hands, debating what his next move was. He should – he should go. But before he could begin to say goodbye, she was gone again, crawling into the tent. He felt a fool, and his cheeks flushed a rare shade of crimson. Perhaps she thought their coupling less than impressive, or his body proof of a less than enduring case of opposites attract; perhaps she was disappointed in this filthy old man, who wanted nothing but to so obviously to fuck her again and again. Perhaps she was reconsidering what they had done. Perhaps this was her answer as to whether it would ever happen again.

Figuring that was the well and true end of things, he sighed and began to redress; it would not be particularly easy, given that he was still half-turgid, but he managed to get his pants nearly all the way up before he heard the tent part again.  

“Where are you going?” The wildlings voice was reedy and hurt, and he turned back to a look of surprised anger on her face. Again.

“I thought you wished me to leave,” he said, and truthfully, he knew he should. Despite the fire in his blood, he had his duties under the ground and he was dimly aware he was neglecting them. But then his wildling shook her head.

 “No, Hades, let me be clear: I want you to come here, and I want you  _to fuck me_ ,” she said, and his deathless heart nearly stopped. Her lips slid into a smile that may as well have been a portent of his doom; his mind whirled in giddy terror.  But somehow, he was already walking toward her.

The poison muddling his head and his cock took him the rest of the way. He tossed his hastily discarded clothing next to hers, abandoning it by the fire, and dove through the doorway.

“You’re pretty spry, you know,” she said, smirking, and then she held out a hand, vines wrapping around it already in a wordless embrace of life; she was open, open, and willing to mate! He opened his palm, shadow-sense open, and let instinct guide him home as he coupled her. This time, he took his time entering her; much to his satisfaction, she did not complain as he slowly pressed himself inside of her.  

“Better?” He asked, voice low; she nodded and smiled, biting her lip.

“You feel very nice," she murmured; a shy grin graced her lips, and he had never seen anything so beautiful.  “I could get used to this, Hades.”

He chuckled; the idea seemed a good one to him.

It was different this time, in the comfort of the cave, under the crackling of the fire; his pace was slower, more tender, and despite the muddling of his senses, he was well aware of how much this felt like a different kind of union than what they’d shared earlier. Still, desperately, he wanted her; whatever she gave him, it was simultaneously too much and not even close to enough. He buried himself deep on every thrust, desperate to stay with her, to couple her completely; he felt himself buried deep in her, felt her tight cunt gripping him mercilessly and felt her overwhelming sense of being filled in turn. She wrapped her legs around him, her hands, she held tight to his above her head, and he felt  _everything_ ; he felt her every move, her every breath. It was getting stronger now, the connection between them, and that was in its own way terrifying; he had never been connected to _anyone_ on such a level. Lazy vines of morning glories slowly wound around his head in a garland, and he felt his pulse shudder at the sheer sentimentality of her giving him a crown in her own lands.

He did not dare to pull his hand away from hers, not at all. He concentrated, closing his eyes and using his own power to build her a circlet of jewels from his own kingdom, pyrite chains with light green and yellow peridots dancing upon her brow. She giggled in joy at his gift, and a mad, possessive love grew deep in his old, ancient bones.

His lips kissed at every bit of her he could reach, but he did not, could not break away. Now that he knew she could be trusted with this sort of embrace, it felt almost profane not to expose himself to her this way. _Y_ _ou_ _are setting yourself up to marry this sweetling_ , his mind whispered, and even knowing all the ways that could be a bad idea, knowing how many she had rejected; still, his mouth said “Yes,” and she had cried out and he had known, then, what he would have to ask her. It would not be too bad a thing for her. Surely she would grow used to the underworld; she would have far more power at his side than as a mere goddess of flowers and fauna. He could see it, linked with her; the bound string of fate, the woman whose face was open with unbearable pleasure upon his bed. Yes, he would have her. He  _needed_  her…and it was not, entirely, his ailment that had led him to such desires. Perhaps this was a sign, this fever; perhaps it had been given to him by the fates, the old biddies finally fed up of him being so long alone. They worked in strange ways, after all. Perhaps they had been the ones to kick the dryad from its roots; or to alert her to his needs—if so, he was in some way, thankful to them.

The madness in his veins let him plunge into her, again and again, insatiable; he lost track of how many times they made love that night, only knowing that he had ceased to count by the time they finally stopped. The firelight dimmed and glowed low, and still, he made love to her; her in his lap, her on her side, her underneath him, her above him. His mind swam as he claimed her, again and again; only at the end of the night, when even his immortal body began to ache before the dawn, did he finally soften enough to be sated – if only just.

She rarely broke her grip on his hands, keeping them bonded the entire time, and as sunlight began to flow over his rapidly closing eyes, she kept them locked together, so that even their dreams would be shared.

 _Marry me_ , he thought, and he wasn’t sure if she heard him or not; a quiet titter of laughter resounded in his head, and he wasn’t sure if it was her assenting, her laughing at his ridiculous proposal, or simply his own mind acknowledging the farce of it all. They’d barely known one another a day, and yet – he could think of nothing but her. He was, for the moment, too exhausted to worry about his feelings. For the first time in a long time, he felt—at peace. Slowly, he began to ebb away from the waking world, into sleep, where his dreams were – for the first time since his father’s war – pleasantly dreamless and black.

* * *

He awoke more sore than he had been in years; every joint he had cracked as he slowly blinked back to awareness.  He grunted and squinted in unfamiliar sunlight, trying to recall why he wasn’t in his own bed, waking up to the dim fire-light of the Phlegethon. There was a smoking campfire outside, and he was in a…tent? He blinked and looked to his side, suddenly aware of the body lying next to him as he shifted. A lovely head of kinky, flowing hair well bedecked with flowers and jewels lay next to him; the wildling, he remembered, and, slowly, he began to recollect his memories of the previous day, which rolled in dimly at first and quickly amplified in volume, a symphony of low moans and heavenly cries.

Hades gasped in horror. He had –  _oh,_ _no_. He remembered being wrapped in the vines, the urgent infection that had been sent upon his blood—and the satisfaction he’d taken in her. Oh, he’d taken his fair share, hadn’t he, and more than that. Demeter was going to absolutely kill him, and he deserved it; he’d taken his younger sister’s daughter— _her much younger_ daughter—as a goddess, linked up with her in ways that were quite profane. Life and death in a dance like  _that_? Demeter would be well within her rights to turn him into kindling. They hadn’t even – gods above, had she had any sort of contraception? He did not recall asking, and he certainly hadn’t offered.

Zeus may well use Chronos’ sickle off on him should Persephone birth his bastard, he thought.  It wouldn’t be easy to misidentify any kin of his; any child of his would be born with the heavy cowl of the underworld on them. Zeus would ferret it out as easily as he had his own hundreds of whelps. He had little hope of getting ahead of this; he’d have to go to Olympus as soon as possible and beg —  **beg** — his insufferable younger brother for the girl’s hand. A hand which Zeus had, oh-so-tactfully and subtly, already denied him by virtue of not asking him if he’d wanted her in the first place. And to think only a few afternoons ago, he had thought Zeus had done him a favor.

The goddess at his side slowly turned. As she did, the blanket she’d pulled up around them fell away, revealing the flush of a well—sexed woman, and his mark well nipped into her neck. He really had lost control; he sighed. Idiot. He ran his hand over his own neck, felt the tender spot where she’d nipped into him—no, it would be obvious on them both. They’d left their marks. Well, only one thing to be done. It was too late to take things back and…he wasn’t entirely sure if he regretted it.

She had held him all night, shadow-palm and all. Even Hestia, his closest sister, could not boast such a simple expression of love; she had always winced when they’d so much as shaken hands, even if he’d kept his power closed off from her. The others were varying shades of not-better and worse still when it came to touching him; Zeus would barely touch his palm, shaking his hand like a limp fish; Poseidon never touched his hand at all, ditto Demeter, and Hera—well, she looked insulted he’d even try. But Persephone—she had been open with him from the start, had courted him. What was it she’d said when she’d mounted him?

 _I have death in me_ , his memory of her voice whispered in his ear.

And she did. How she did. How he would like her to have him again, though there was nothing left of his cock for her to find novel, not anymore. The beautiful girl snored lightly, and he could not stop himself from touching her side. How warm she was, how soft, how beautiful. He wanted her still, even knowing he should be ashamed for it. She was  _centuries_  younger than him. Perhaps even  _millenniums_  younger. She may wear the old clothes but who knew how old she was; 18? 1,800? 18,000? He was far older than all of the above, had taken his first steps when the world was little more than smoke and ash.

She neither leaned into his touch nor denied it, continuing to sleep soundly. He supposed she had every right to be tired, he’d put her through her paces in this tent, and outside, too. Stars above, he realized dimly; they’d put on quite a show outside as well. He’d have even less room to maneuver with cocky Zeus now, who no doubt had seen every image of him quite eagerly enjoying his daughter's gifts.

He tried to lie back down next to her, holding her as close as he could, even with her hair full of poppies, petunias, peridot and pyrite tickling at his nose. He ran a hand down her side again, closing his eyes as he explored her smooth, tawny skin. She would come with him, wouldn’t she? He could not imagine the wildling out of her lands, but neither could he imagine her refusing. A realm-lord’s offer of marriage was far higher than Demeter could reasonably expect her wildling daughter to receive, but then, the child had already refused Poseidon’s offer of companionship, and that, too, had been a realm-lord’s offer. He tightened his arm across her, holding her tighter. His heart was beating faster; perhaps fast enough that she could hear it, for she stirred slightly in his arms.

And if she awoke, what then? He grimaced. He was not ready to have this discussion, not yet. He wasn’t even sure he could have any conversation with her here; if she awoke, and she looked at him with wide, wicked gold-flecked eyes in a naughty glance? He’d bed her again, he thought; she was already naked, and he’d take every bit of advantage to have her again and again. He would fill her as long as she was willing. Something about her took his well-honed control and flung it straight down to Tartarus; she was vexing and intoxicating and wonderful all at once. No, he couldn’t do it; had to have his mind set right. He needed – he needed space.

Carefully, he extracted himself from her, slowly slipping his hands from her side and moving at a snail's pace so as not to make much noise. He crawled out of the tent with blinking confusion in the low light of day; then, he meekly gathered his outfit. He put back on his pants and buttoned up his shirt; he debated adding the coat, but forsook it – if the wilding awoke while he was walking, he wanted her to know that he was still around, had not left without saying goodbye.

He glanced heavenward, as if he could see Zeus. He raised a hand to the sky, but no heavenly messenger came; no warning, either. No thunderbolt came down upon him, and he took that as perhaps a sign that Zeus would be merciful enough to allow marriage. With a sigh, he walked forward, gathering his shoes and walking through the wildling’s grove.

As far as sacred spaces went, it was a rather nice one; now, in the quiet twilight, he could see a bit more of it as he paced restlessly. It was an island, he realized, dimly coming across the shoreline on the opposite side of where he’d arrived earlier when he had apparated up into the mortal world. He turned back toward the wildlings grove, marveling at her little space. It was alive in every quarter; vines and grasses and thick nettles and briars everywhere he passed. The trees closest to her clearing were spectacular; old stock he knew not the name of, but even he enjoyed their brilliant green leaves. It felt unnatural to admire the vivacity of life here, so long underground, but he did. He found himself pacing back to where the wildling had met him only what felt like a day before, staring down at the garden which had so enraptured his interest—and the spirit that had once been trapped there. Poor Charon; he had been gone long, now, and the boatman must truly be bored with the nymph. Hopefully, he had not dunked it into the Styx.

He could see the vine the poor dryad had been contained in and next to it, the flower he had tramped the day before. The vine had curled around the flower, still well-sprung and hale from Persephone’s touch the day before. It was a beautiful thing, and again he felt the curious urge to touch it—but this time he held back, observed it more carefully. There was something a bit odd to it, the quicksilver grey mixed with light pink in its petals, the odd thrum of its energy. He stared upon it again, wondering why the quicksilver grey should so bother him—and then it hit him, all at once.  _That_  was Aphrodite’s bloom, awash in the quicksilver ink; the _nymph’s blood_ , it was called. A renowned—and potent—aphrodisiac.

And they had  _both_  touched it.

He scooted back on instinct, panic seizing in his chest. A love-plant, a  _love-spell_ , and they’d both fallen under its sway. He’d taken her without knowing, but it made it all the more despicable; of course she would have no interest in a man such as himself without it. Of course, it had been all the damnable love goddess. Aphrodite, he thought, was Uranus’ revenge on them all for his castration. What better evidence of that was this feeling rioting through his chest, as if his ancient heart was cracking open, ready to be devoured? This was  _not_  love, though it had been all too easy to fool himself with perhapses and if onlys _._ This had been mere chance, a shared poisoning of blood—and he, the elder, who should have known better, had done little more than all too willingly bury his cock into a woman whose virtue he should have protected.

He was, he realized, no better than his brothers. And the wildling—had she truly wanted it at all? Had he done little more than rape her? Would she awaken sad and sore of him? He had to—he had to talk to her, had to explain—but that didn’t matter. No, he’d done her badly. No recompense could fix it. To think, he would have asked her to marry him. Foolish. Of course he could not hope for such, of course her touch had been nothing more than mere… _lust_. She would never hold her hand open to him like that again, let intoxicating life course through his shadow-senses as she had. She would be horrified when she remembered how much of death she had let inside her, and he would carry this shame until his dying day.

He heard the soft crunch of the grass behind him, and knew his doom was at hand. The girl crept up behind him and pressed two strong arms across his chest; he did not know what to do. Did he hold her? Did he run away? He could not decide and thus did nothing, standing quite miserable.

“Mornin’, uncle. Well, evening.” She chuckled into his ear and he shifted, trying with all his might not to turn around and bury her in his arms. “Are you hungry? I’m quite famished; we never did eat the snack I grabbed and you worked me so hard all night.” Her hand trailed lower, loosely caressing his hip and then lower still; he stopped her hand there, before it reached its destination. “I did not hear you leave, you were so quiet; were you thieving out of my garden for a snack? You could have asked. I would have given one to you—though now, I suppose, I have the means to demand compensation and thus to keep you even longer.”

She slipped from his side then, taking a step forward past him and near the garden. Unable to resist any longer, he grabbed her into a tight embrace, telling himself even if it was selfish, he was at least keeping her from danger. His hands caught fabric and for once he was happy she was wearing her dress. His hand settled on her belly, softly moving with her breath under his fingertips. He dared not think of what he feared. “Don’t,” he said, and swallowed.

“What?”  He looked down upon her, sure he was not doing a good job keeping the horror from his face. She looked up with the face of the innocent, and he watched painfully as her expression went from blissful happiness to concern. “What troubles you, uncle?” She looked down to her belly then back at him, and shook her head, a soft smile on her lip. “Are you worried…? Oh, never fear uncle, you’ll not be made a father yet. I’ve taken silphium for birth control every morning for centuries. There’s no risk of  _that_ , Hades _.”_

That was a small relief, to know he had not begotten her an unwelcome babe on top of everything else. But still, he suffered. He reached out with an unsteady hand; cupping her cheek. He had to tell her. She had every right to know.  “Persephone…niece.”

“Hm?” She leaned her wild cheek into the curve of his palm, and he sucked in a hot gasp of air. Stars, how could she stand him?  Surely she would not, after knowing what he had done to her.  

“I need to tell you something,” he said, and she smiled and shook her head.

“Is that all that has you so dour? I heard what you thought in the morning-light, uncle; and there is no need to be nervous, I shall give you my answer while we eat; let me pluck a few things from my garden…“ She smiled brilliantly and pulled away from him, and he wondered if she was still under its veil; she had been infected later than he had been. He could not allow her to touch it again.  
  
“No!” He pulled her tighter to him. “Please listen.”

“Whatever could be such a matter? You are bleating so much like a nanny goat I should think you were my mother.”

He ignored the insult, smoothing down her hair with shaking hands. “Look in your garden, to the flowers; the one I trampled yesterday, do you remember?”

She turned and looked; he kept his arms on her, and told himself it was for reasons less selfish than fearing it was the last time that he would be able to do so.

“It is one of Auntie Aphrodite’s plants she recently gifted me,” she said, her voice as innocent as a lark. “Yes, I know uncle.”

“ _We_   _touched it_ ,” he ground out between clenched teeth. “We were…under its spell.”

Her eyes widened; she sucked in a harsh breath, then another. “You…touched it? On purpose?” Now she looked troubled, and his heart sunk as he knew it would.

“ _No_!” He shook his head vigorously and then stopped, reconsidered. Dangerous ground here, and it would be best to be honest. “Well, sort of. I thought it was lovely, and wished to touch it as a flower—I did not recognize the danger of it until I saw it now, and remembered just what effect such potent drug may have.”

“Oh.” She looked up at him, her chin almost wobbling; even someone as unused to company as himself recognized, all too keenly, that this was a sign she might cry. “Does that mean when we…you really were…feverish? You were not playing?”

“Yes.” He closed his fingers around her wrist. “I am sorry, I should not have—“

“No, I am the fool.” She sniffed. “I thought— thought you wanted— “  
  
“The fault is entirely mine.” He pulled her closer to him, surprised that she had not yet run for the hills—or her mother. “I am an elder of the family, and as such, I should have protected you better, even from myself.”

She made a soft, sniffling cry; he stroked her hair. “I'm…I thought you were playing you had touched it, uncle.” She huffed into his shirt, something between a laugh and a bitter exhale. “You warned me and yet I thought…he is seducing me, I see it; if he were under the influence, surely he could not hold back at all and he is trying so hard not to mount me, he would not touch me, prep me…It is a game he is playing.”

“It is not your fault, my dear. I am the elder and the blame lies with me.” His stomach threatened towards upheaval and he fought the bile hard; he was already ruining her memories of him enough. “It… I am terribly sorry. You see, I owe you recompense that even with all my riches, I am unsure how to repay, but I will, in whatever way you or your parents deem proper.”

She looked up at him then, biting her lip. “Uncle Hades, I need to tell you something.”  She curled her hands over his neck, though she’d had to stand on her tip-toes to do it. She leaned up and moved her lips to his ear, as if to whisper him a secret. “… _I dosed myself_ ,” she whispered, and he jerked away from her, no doubt looking quite the fool but scalded all the same. Her face fell at his response.

“What?” He looked back at her in ghastliness. He wouldn’t have wished that on anyone.  “ _Why_?”

 “You looked at me with interest, and I…” She bit her lip. “I knew losing my virginity to you would piss my father off. And I am tired, truth be told, of being a virgin locked on an island. And you are…” She was bright red now, and only growing redder. “You’re …well, you’re quite handsome, uncle.”

“You are the first to call me that.” He said, then, realizing fully well and true what she had said, he ran his hand over his face. So he’d taken her virginity to boot, his lady mother above and father below. She had as much as told him; be had simply chosen not to be aware of it. “I am…sorry. I owed you a better time of it. I did not know.”

“It was a very good time of it, to me.” She smiled but he saw the cracks of unsteadiness in it; she reached out a hand to him and he took it. “I did not know you, too, had touched it. I thought…It’s a silly thing, but when I saw you look at me while I notched that arrow, I thought – I thought you found me flattering, uncle. I didn’t—I didn’t know it was—”

“It was not entirely the cursed plant. I do think you beautiful, sweetling.” He patted her shoulder awkwardly. This was a new realm; he was not used to thinking of emotional things. “But why put such a curse upon yourself, Persephone? I would not have wished such a horrid liquid fire upon the veins of my worst enemies.”

“I wanted to…” She turned away and scoffed. “I have been so long cooped up, uncle! My mother leaves me here because I am no longer allowed to assist her in her duties; my father demands I remain until I finally marry off, so I am often alone. There are no mortals here anymore, and the Gods who have come have only come to beg for my body as a brief means of pleasing my father. Why do you think I have taken an aborficant like silphium so long? I’ve long feared one of them would try to force me, for I wanted none of them.”

He tried to imagine it. He too had lived alone for many, many years, but he had not had the threat of rape held over his head. Stars above, he knew how ruthless the family was and yet he’d abandoned her with the rest of them. “Oh, Persephone…” he said, and drew his arms around her. The poor woman. No wonder she had been so fierce when first they had met. She would not need to be so again; regardless of how she felt about him, he would put her under his protection. “I had thought you had gone to see your mother for the antidote…? It despairs me to think of you so suffering all alone. I cannot believe your mother would allow this.”

“She has no choice; she cannot resist the will of Zeus. And I suspect you will think it foolish, but…” her voice was wobbling now, strength fading to a vulnerability that made him shudder. “I have lived here alone for many years, with only my suitors for company. Most did not take rejection well; many told me I was ugly and that I would be lucky of their company, that no one likes an old virgin, that I was frigid; uncle, and after so many insults I took them for truth. I thought if I would borrow some of my auntie’s grace, perhaps I would be …seductive enough, for a man of your stature. I was nervous and I walked in the trees to get the sap from an old tree, and then walked more until I felt the drug take effect, and even then I waited until I was nearly out of my mind with want before I returned. I wanted you to think of me as beautiful as Aphrodite and just as irresistible."

“That you were,” he admittedly quietly. “That you  _are_. But you would be, regardless.” He took a chance and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “You are stunningly beautiful, the finest of all goddesses. Know this for truth, for all your days.”

“Now you are the first to say that,” she said, a soft blush on her cheeks. They stayed together a moment, neither sure, he thought, of where to go from here. She squeezed his hand carefully, and he traced nonsense patterns on her hand with his thumb. She found her courage first and looked up at him, brown eyes evaluating him. “Do you…do you regret it, uncle? What we did?”

That was a potent question and he weighed his responses carefully. He might not have wished for the conditions of their first meeting but…he could not honestly say he was sorry to make her acquaintance. She was not only beautiful but crafty and compassionate, and he had not known he much he had longed to connect with someone who showed no fear of him. “No,” he said, plainly. “Do you?”

She shook her head and leaned upwards on her toes, struggling to kiss him. He bent down and captured her lips for her. Even without Aphrodite's poison, it wasn’t enough for him; he kissed her again, then again, and again. She tugged his head toward her and he deepened the kiss; her hands moved under his shirt and he moaned into her, breaking the kiss only when he absolutely had to. They stumbled backward until they hit one of the trees of her orchard, and he used it to trap her against him, letting her feel how he was already half-erect at her touch.

 “You are quite a dangerous thing,” he murmured. His lips went to her neck and licked and suckled wantonly at the mark he’d made on her, knowing the bite would still be tender. She stroked at his nape, her fingers just barely reaching the mark shed placed on him, and he growled possessively.

“Always.” She smiled at him, pure and sweet and intoxicatingly alluring, the subtlest hint of danger in the glint of her teeth. A fine queen of his lands she would be, oh yes. She grinned wider, and he wondered if she could read his thoughts.

“Do you wish to know the answer to your question?” She wiggled her hips against him and he felt adrift in a dangerously strong current in Aphrodite’s ocean. How could he be so intoxicated by her, having known her so short a time? Had he lost his damn mind? Perhaps, but he felt dangerously giddy of it. He supposed time did not matter. They belonged together. It was as simple as that.  A dangerous feeling pushed up through his soul, budding like a flower in the spring: happiness, of a sort.

“I do,” he said, daring to plan ahead. He would take her down to his domain, yes, do that first; Zeus would have no choice but to grant him his marriage then. And if he did not, well…he could hole up in the ground for a while. The human souls would wait, and Zeus would not dare to enter the underworld. Hades could afford to be patient, so long as she would come and stay at his side.

She giggled and turned from him then, quickly clambering up her tree with the daring impetuousness of youth. She reached for a pomegranate upon one of her many trees and smiled. She fumbled through her pocket until she found her flint knife, cutting one of the strangely shaped fruits and he caught it as the fruit tumbled into his hands. She bounded down next, and he reached for the flint knife, using it to open the fruit. A bright flash of red arils spilled forth in a bounty he could not boast in the underworld.

“As I said, uncle, we shall have a meal.” She smiled, all dangerous, and held it out to her lips. He watched, all hunger, as she swallowed the first seed.

“Your turn, Hades.” He liked it when she used his name and kissed her to encourage the use of it; she tasted tart from the juice and he licked at her lips as she giggled. “This is serious,” she murmured; he didn’t care.

He picked an aril out; it had been years since he had eaten anything but the food of the dead, and the juice that stained his fingers looked strange. It was obvious why she had chosen the fruit;  _fidelity_ , it meant, in the old tongue. And to eat the fruit of another god in their dwelling—well, he knew what she was offering. Even if Zeus refused to recognize their marriage, this binding would seal him to her glen, would make him as much a part of this place as she was.

He ate it, and then it was her turn to kiss him; five more seeds they ate in that fashion, swapping the juices between them, the sour-sweet taste bursting on his tongue. When it was done, he handed the fruit’s core back to her. “I would have your answer, wild one.”

He already knew, of course, but he wanted to hear it out loud. Wanted to hear she had chosen him, him above all others. But the wilding knew that too, and the look in her eyes suggested more wickedness than mercy.

“It’s a funny thing, uncle, the rules of a God’s lair. Did you know that by supping of their sacred foods you bind yourself to them?” His eyes darted toward her as she picked, carefully, upon the ruins of the fruit she had offered him. “You’re mine now, Mr. Third Estate.”

“Clever minx,” he said, pressing her into the tree. He has dreamed of this and he would have it; he pulled his arms under her knees and hoisted her up on it; she hadn’t, to his surprise, bothered with her underthings; one quick movement and he would be in her again. Her eyes suggested she very much wanted that, and who was he to fight her on it? He nodded to her unspoken question, and she laughed.

Her fingers slowly fiddled with his pants as he stared down at her with heavy eyes.  “You will have to do the same in my abode in six months time; I will give up six months above should you do the same below.” He would have to convince her to allow him to go down for some time for work but well—with apologies to the dryad and the other lost souls—that was a talk they could be having later. Perhaps _much_ later.

He hissed in triumph as she managed to undo his pants, all by herself; she pushed them down and then cupped her hands around him.  Oh stars, she was clever; so clever. She stroked him mercilessly, and he didn’t look away as he grew between her fingers.

“We shall see,” She hissed; his heart faltered for a moment, but the teasing smile in her eyes suggested she was only giving him a hard time. “You did say it was rather gloomy, and you have given me six months of your time regardless.  But I will visit, at least. If only to try out your bed,” she murmured, pushing herself up enough to kiss him. “Would you like that? Me in your bed?”

“ _Our_ bed, Mrs. Third Estate, and yes, yes, _yes_ , I would,” he said, meeting her eyes as he guided himself into her. It was a bit premature to call her that without her parent's permission, perhaps, but he did not care. He adjusted his grip so he could hold her one-handedly, letting the tree do some of the lifting. With his other hand, he opened his palm, shadows roaring out of it. Her hand rose to meet it, life exploding out between their palms. As they closed them together, he darted forward to steal a kiss from her; fate rippled, and he felt the line of his fate cross with hers. He felt – everything. Everything they had ever been, everything they would be. He saw her in himself and he cried out not from the pleasure of her body but from the union of their minds. She was no less overcome, her moans as loud as his—and despite knowing they were putting on a show again, he really did not give a damn.

He would need to leave soon, to deal with the dryad, and his duties, and of course, Zeus and Demeter above.

But for now, he wanted only her, and all of her, as much as he could have. He let his shadows pour forth; and vines burst forth from her palms with quixotic grace, helping to support her against the tree as he took her.  

Demeter and Zeus would yield. He was stubborn enough to make them, and with her at his side, nothing would stop them.

“Hades,” she murmured, wrapping her one hand around his neck. He kissed every bit of exposed skin he could in encouragement. “You’re mine, Hades, all mine.”

“I am,” he purred, burying himself as deep inside of her as he could, felt her pull him deeper still, wanting more. She was as insatiable as he was.  

He had learned long ago not to waste precious gifts when they presented themselves, and nothing was as precious as her. He felt their consciousness merge fully, felt the burgeoning love echoing between them, and for the first time—the first time in a very long time—he felt complete.

* * *

 

Charon waited patiently, as he had been. That had been his job since time immortal; Hades—or Iapetus, before him—brought the souls, and Charon sent them down the river to the eternal fields. Circumstances, however, were trying the boatman’s patience. Things had not gone the way they had for the past several thousands of years for the past few days, and Charon had no idea what to do. He had even gotten out of his boat, so unmoored was he; staring at the walls in Hades’ halls, he felt no better.

The nymph who had crashed upon his boat faired little better, waiting morosely upon the step of Hades’ throne room. He felt more ill at ease than usual; not only was he not on his boat, but Lord Hades hadn’t been back in nearly a fortnight, and the poor creature – well, he was getting awful tired of consoling her. There were only so many ways to say  _sorry, you’re dead_ and he’d run out of all of them.

“Do you think he’ll be soon?” She asked. She had accepted her fate, at least; hopefully, Hades would send her to Asphodel or Tartarus or Elysium or well, frankly, anywhere, just so long as it wasn’t in the Styx. Charon loved the old river goddess too much to see her further polluted with the girls’ wailing.

“I’ll take it up to Zeus if he isn’t back within another day or two,” he said, knowing he must and equally dreading it. He didn’t like Olympus, never had once the usurpers took over. But Hades rarely spent an hour on the surface, and frankly despite his reticence, at two weeks his lack of reporting the man missing was sliding from negligent to inexcusable.  

“That won’t be necessary!” Came a new voice, and he turned in surprise, eyes wide; a woman strolled in he’d not seen. Obviously Olympian – a curvy lass, with a sonorous voice and a crown of crystal flowers and thorns made of precious jewels. “Are you Charon?”

“Aye.” He eyed her warily: she’d not come dressed for war—but a new God in the underworld was an atypical thing. She wasn’t Hades and his duties lied with the man, not this interloper. “Is Lord Hades with—?”

“He’s coming,” she said, rolling her eyes. Her crown caught in the dim light as she stepped forward and his eyes widened: her crown had an ancient inscription, one that marked her as a realm-queen. Her attention turned to the little nymph, who was staring at her in as much fascination as Charon was. “Oh my, are you a shade? I've never seen one.”

“Are you…?” The nymph looked as lost as he felt, but the universe righted itself slightly as Hades strolled in, a large bouquet of asphodel in his hands. At least, he thought it was the man; he looked as Hades did, but the permanent smile on his face was…not something he’d ever associated with the man, to put it mildly.

“Found some,” he heard Hades say, and the nymph scrambled straight up, eager now for her final benediction. His boss bounded into the low light and Charon bit his cheek: it was Hades, alright, bounding into view with not only a goofy smile on his face but a _flower_ crown on  _his_  head. He wasn’t sure if Hades had hit his head upstairs something fierce, or if Charon had finally given up all sense of sanity at the thought of seeing what Zeus had done to Chronos' hallowed halls, but it was certainly a sight, either way. “Charon! Good seeing you. Apologies for the delay.”

He nodded stiffly, watching as Hades turned toward the Olympian, wordlessly handing her six asphodel blossoms, as if that made sense. “Eat up, wife,” he said, tapping her shoulder.

“Wife?” He looked up at the Olympian woman, then back at Hades, then back at the woman. He blinked. Well. That would explain the delay, he supposed. He hadn’t realized the Olympians had been compelled to mate, but he could see why Hades picked this one. She radiated life and light. “My…Queen?” he said, trying the word on his tongue. It felt…odd.

“We’ll see.” The woman’s eyes twinkled with Jovian mischief as she wove Hades' flowers carefully into her crown. “And yes, I’m Persephone, Hades is my husband. I’m a goddess of spring. I’ll be around from time to time.” She looked around, squinting. “Now, if you want me to be queen of this place, we’re going to need to change the lighting situation in here. How did you ever find your way here without stumbling over yourself? Gods above, I was doing you mercy, trapping you up there.”

Charon raised an eyebrow. Trapping? The young ones had odd ideas of courtship, that was for sure. Had such a courtship been his lordship’s choice? It was hard to imagine the little curvaceous thing could force someone as fearsome as Hades into anything. Hades looked at him and shrugged. “It’s a …well, it’s a story.” Hades said, and was it his imagination or did the underworld god look embarrassed? Probably some sort of coupling ritual. He wouldn’t pry. He truly did not wish to know.

“Uhm, sir, could I…?” The little nymph squeaked; Hades startled, visibly, and Charon again had to bite his cheek. Well, the missus would keep things from being boring, he supposed, if she could make Hades forget his duties.

“Of course!” He grabbed his wife’s arm and strode with her over to the little nymph. “Wife, let me introduce you to the highest of my duties. This is one of our subjects, come to their final rest.” He flexed his hand over the girl, his shadow—hand open; Charon always liked to watch Hades work, there was something calming about the shadows that poured forth. It reminded him nothing so much as his primordial home, deep within Gaea. To his surprise, Hades opened his other hand, and the little missus opened her own power and clasped it—he saw light, brilliant light, and suddenly there was a carpet of asphodels underneath their feet. He snorted, but no one noticed him, too caught in their own rituals.

“Do you see her time, darling?” Hades voice sounded odd, echoing in the chamber. “It was a long life.”

“Yes.” She stared at the nymph for a moment, and then turned, and Charon bit back a gasp at her eyes, so bright they were glowing with nascent power.

“Where should we put her wife? It was a good life, but not perfect. She hurt some, helped others.”

“No person is perfect.” She leaned into her husband. “Why not give her Elysium? She died far from home, lost and confused. It was not her fault she wandered to my grove seeking shelter, and her suffering has surely equaled if not surpassed any trouble she has caused.”

She spoke like a realm-queen alright, Charon thought with a smirk. Hades broke the connection and smiled at his wife. “Are you sure you're not the realm-queen here yet, darling? You speak with wisdom. I am in accord.”

He reached out and pressed his shadow palm over the nymph, who closed her eyes.

 “Do try to enjoy Elysium, little one,” he murmured, and then she was gone.

“You’re in a good mood,” Charon said. He took a few steps forward and placed an ancient hand on Hades' shoulder and laughed.

“Can I assume it’s safe for me to resume my work now?” He leaned in close to his lordship's ear and murmured, “I’ll uh…knock if uh…if I need ye.”  
  
“Ah, yes.” Hades did not look him in the eye, already turning red at the cheeks. Newlyweds! They were all the same. “That might be a good idea.”

“A pleasure meeting you, my queen,” he said, tipping his ancient cap; she did not correct his words. Good. He hoped she would stay.

“Now, husband,” the girl purred as he left, and he could not help but smile as he left them to their work. “Let’s talk about getting some sunlight in here. Maybe some plants?”

Charon walked back through Hades’ hall, happy to leave the newlyweds to their bliss. He tried to imagine what sunlight felt like on his skin; it had been eons since the war, and even then he’d spent most of it down here. Still, he wouldn't mind the little goddess too much, even if her ideas were strange. She seemed to judge well, at least, and he knew Hades well enough to know he had no doubt chosen his bride carefully. He certainly wouldn’t desperately carry off the first woman who'd shot cupid’s arrow at him, he was old enough to be beyond that.

Someone in the throne room giggled and Charon laughed. Perhaps not too old to care about that, however! He didn’t dare look, instead pulling open Hades’ heavy iron doors and walking back to what he considered his only home. He grinned, already in a better mood as he took his welcome first steps into his boat. The Styx rocked around him in return. Ah, home. The boss was back, and now he was back where he should be, and everything was once again right with the underworld, even if it was a little different than it had been before. And that, he supposed, was welcome, or at least, tolerable.

Anything that put the boss in a good mood, well – he supposed there was nothing wrong with that. Change in the underworld was an odd thing, but he would grow used to it. As long as he had his hands on his oars and the Styx under his feet, all would be alright.


End file.
